Sweeter Than Honey

by Mary B. Morrison

  Lace had left home early, hadn’t called me all day, and didn’t say where she was going. Obviously shoving Lace wasn’t aggressive enough to keep her from sucking the dick of another man. What difference should that make since I was the one ending our relationship? The only thing she did was convince me I’d made the right decision. But I needed to reject her first. See the pitiful expression on her face when I said, “I’m leaving you. Forever.”

  Surpassing “until death do you part,” forever was the longest time. Maybe I’d have a change of heart and take her back in a few months after I got myself together or ran out of money, whichever came first. Then I’d make good on my promise to…damn, I’d forgotten all about my twenty-thousand-dollar engagement ring. Where was it? Lace didn’t have it on last night. I swear if that man had my ring, I’d lose my mind.

  Roaming throughout her house to find my ring, I already knew what pawnshop to take it to for the best deal. I wondered if Lace had any other secret hiding places where she kept money. I needed all the big-ticket items and cash I could get before departing on my one-way trip. When I first moved in with Lace, I’d been through almost every drawer, kitchen and bedroom, every closet, bedroom and living room, every box, jewelry and shoe, and every other place I came across in her house and her garage.

  Obviously Lace was smart enough not to keep her valuables where I could find them. Sifting though her daily mail I never saw a bank, mortgage investment, credit card, medical statement, nor an electric, phone—cell or home—or water bill. Nothing. The only mail that came to her house was junk. Initially I was pissed, but now I was relieved that my name was nowhere on a single envelope.

  “Fuck this,” I said, giving up trying to find Lace’s stash so I could steal it. Snatching a few mink coats from the walk-in closet, I figured I could recoup the money for my ring and call it even.

  “Won’t be needing these anymore,” I mumbled, tossing Lace’s house keys on the living room coffee table. Hurling the coats in the trunk, I noticed the box of alcohol in the garage and grabbed a few bottles of vodka as my cell phone rang.

  Sitting in the Jaguar, I hoped it was Lace calling to change my mind, but the last person I wanted to speak with was on the other end. I answered, “What’s up? What you want now?”

  “Nigga, you need to straight drop the attitude. I ain’t your bitch.”

  “And I’m not yours. What else do you want from me?”

  “Oh, did you grow an extra set of balls, nigga? Get your ass over here. I need you to make a run for me right quick.”

  “I’m not your gofer. Get some—”

  Exhaling, Valentino hung up.

  Grinding my back teeth, I pressed my lips together, started the engine, and cruised out of the garage.

  “Forget Valentino, I’m my own man. After picking up my money, I’ll just drive and wherever I stop is where I’ll stay, but it sure as hell won’t be New Orleans.”

  That was messed up how President Bush called Katrina victims evacuees, refugees, everything except the United States citizens that they were in America. The damn dogs had better rescue efforts from animal rights’ activists than the humans who died in their cars, attics, at the convention center, inside the Superdome, and with no place else to go, on the streets.

  Strange how the president made his way to Mississippi to hug white people, then flew over New Orleans so he didn’t have to touch folks like me. That’s because a majority of the people living in New Orleans were black. And just like in the war in Iraq, military guards standing tall with fully loaded weapons were ready to aim, shoot, and kill. Unarmed residents who were almost over their heads in the muddy Mississippi River waters scraping for food and diapers for the innocent babies strapped to the back of their necks had become human targets for practice. Survival was ultimately through the eyes of the oppressor, not the oppressed, and every day a black man is reminded of his place in society. A new chapter in my book: a black man’s place in the white man’s race.

  “Ignorant soldiers should’ve put the guns down and helped rescue the stranded. Just like I’m doing right now, if it were me stranded in New Orleans, I would’ve done whatever I had to to get to safety.”

  Sad, sad, sad, I bet a whole lot more bodies were pumped out of the city into the mucky waters of the Mississippi River than the statistics will show or loved ones will ever know. There was no closure for blacks in New Orleans on the whereabouts of their family members, but way too many foreclosures were generated by insurance companies refusing to settle legitimate claims in order to regain ownership of the black man’s land that they’d resell to the white man for capital gain.

  White folks in Mississippi and outside New Orleans got their one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar grant to rebuild their homes and their communities, young black wannabe gangstas in the Crescent City continued to kill one another for pennies on the dollar while white Americans reverted to their normal lifestyles: some trying to figure out how they could buy a house in New Orleans on the steps of City Hall once Nagin had cleared out most of the, as Valentino would say, niggas.

  The shortage of cops wasn’t the real problem. From big lips to diamonds in Africa to tans to bodacious booties to prime real estate property, by any means necessary white folks always wanted what the black man had. Everything except pride. The white man consciously took the black man’s pride, rechanneling the energy into sometimes overt and at other moments covert white supremacy, then rammed his rules down the black man’s throat, leaving a bitter taste in the black man’s conscience and subconscious.

  Stopping at the gas station, I began filling Lace’s tank. Opening the trunk, I moved the minks aside, checking the car for bloodstains. There were a few crusty spots along with white speckles where the bleach had ruined the mat. Removing the mat, I carried it to the oversized Dumpster and looked over my shoulder before stuffing it in. When I got to a safe place, I’d sell Lace’s car as is online, and buy me a Benz or used Bentley to park in front of my new house in Georgia. That way sistas like Lace would love me.

  “Fifty dollars!” I shook my head. “Gas prices are ridiculous.”

  Paying the cashier, I headed to Sunny’s condo to get my stash but not the body. I couldn’t stomach the feeling of transporting a corpse. This was my first daylight trip to the condo. Parking across the street, I entered the property, observing my surroundings. A few kids were playing football in the open parking lot on the back side.

  Halfway up the stairs I heard, “Hey, Mr. Bannister. Catch!”

  Instinctively my hands reached out as the brown leather bomb fumbled in the air before settling in my chest.

  “Can we get your autograph?” a kid barely five feet tall walking toward me asked.

  “Next time, kid. I don’t have a pen and I’m in a hurry.”

  “Oh, Benito. I have a Sharpie, sweetheart,” a voice resounded from behind me.

  As I turned to face an elderly woman sitting on the top step who was the spitting image of Mama James, my mouth hung open when the silhouette of the woman vanished with the wind.

  I glanced up at Sunny’s window and saw another image, this time her twin staring into my eyes before letting go of the balcony. Reluctantly taking the marker from the little boy, I scribbled on the ball with every intention of buying that fingerprinted football from him once I got my money from inside.

  Dashing upstairs two at a time like it was goal and ten at the two-minute warning, I crossed the threshold, locked the door. and exhaled, “Fuck! If it weren’t for bad luck, goddamn!”

  Not knowing if Sunny’s twin would show up, I hurried to the bedroom closet…the silver case…the body…both were missing? Gripping my tightening chest, I turned on the light to make sure. The clothes were gone too. A woman wasn’t intelligent enough to do this. That negro, Valentino. This is a setup, I thought, ransacking the entire condo. “Fuck!” Racing out the door with the same twenty-dollar bill I had remaining after filling up the tank, I stopped at the top of the staircase staring in disbelie
f.

  Looked like the entire peewee community team was seated at the bottom of the steps blocking my path. “Hey, Mr. Bannister. You house-sitting for Miss Sunny? We haven’t seen her in two days. She usually throws a few balls with us and tells us, ‘Keep your heads up, your grades higher, and stay out of trouble.’ Then she gives us a few dollars to keep an eye on her place. So why you here? She yo’ new girlfriend?”

  “Here, kid. Take this.” Snatching the football, I continued. “Give me that.”

  Grasping the rail, I swung my legs over their heads and ran to my car.

  “Twenty dollars! Come back here! Gimme back my ball! Mama!”

  Speeding down Martin Luther King Boulevard, I thought, What the fuck am I going to do now? To keep my black ass out of prison, I’d have to kill all the whores, all the kids, Sunny’s sister, whoever lived in that house with her, Valentino, and Lace.

  There was only one thing to do. Go to Lace and tell her the truth about Sunny. Since she didn’t know I was leaving, I didn’t have to beg to stay. Shit! I’d left the garage door opener on the key chain with the keys. I could explain locking the keys in the house, but how could I explain having all of Lace’s mink coats in the trunk?

  Exiting the freeway, I made a U-turn, driving toward Valentino’s mansion.

  CHAPTER 25

  Valentino

  Pacing my study, I thought a G like me wasn’t supposed to miss no female, especially Summer. It wasn’t like we dated for years or she had my baby and shit and I couldn’t see them. I hardly knew Summer. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t forget our powerful connection. Haven’t met another woman that matched Summer’s inner beauty.

  Nobody knew what really went down except me. In the heat of the moment, I could’ve but I did not pull that trigger. Standing in the middle of my study, inches from the sofa where we’d made love, I covered my face. Tears flooded my hands. My parents didn’t raise me this way.

  They taught me to respect women and I did. All my pimpin’ days I gave women the finer things. A safe, clean place to work. None of my girls had to suck a dirty dick or flip an alley trick by some cheap-ass nigga who would beat them down afterward to avoid paying for his services. Generously I gave my ladies a damn good salary. Set up weekly health physicals by a certified medical physician. Hired a madam they could look up to while I lay low in the background. Staying out of sight was my way of not fucking those fine-ass bitches. I was cool with strokin’ my big dick every night while watching Summer get dressed. She had the prettiest, round, tight ass and those supple nipples. Just imagining them made my mouth water. None of my girls were forced to work for me; they wanted to. I had loyal and dedicated whores.

  Sniffling, I was straight relieved that neither Lace, Benito, nor anybody else saw me all soft and shit with my head leaning and snot running onto my leather cinema chair. I had enough money to say, “Fuck this business,” but I couldn’t. Once I let those Mafia/police niggas plant Reynolds on my security staff to start selling drugs to my IP clients and supply XTC to my bitches, my revenue tripled, but this shit had gotten bigger than me and larger than Lace. I’d convinced Lace to groom Sunny so she could eventually replace Lace because Sunny was controllable. Lace was not.

  Besides, I could never have a bitch in my space or face twenty-four-seven. If Sunny or anybody else were to marry me I’d build the bitch an in-law unit way across the street so I only had to see her ass when I sent for her.

  If Sunny was serious about quitting, she wouldn’t have shown up for work. Wasn’t like I was gonna waste my time sending Reynolds to drag her in when I had a long list of younger replacements that looked just as hot. Some hotter.

  Walking back and forth across my Persian rug, I wondered if Sunny wanted more of me too. Lately Lace had become too protective of Sunny. Why? How did Sunny know how to get to me? And why had she come all over my dick and then wanted to kill me? Damn, her pussy was pure silk. I would’ve been better off not fucking her.

  Drying my hands underneath my shirt, I thought about how I gave that woman a better lifestyle than most women fantasized about. Fine clothes, a fancy car, her own place. If it weren’t for me, Sunny would’ve had to work years to make the sixty grand I paid her every month.

  Standing, I curled my hand into a fist. “I can’t take this bitch in blue staring at me any longer. And why is this book of all the books Lace put on my shelves front and center?”

  Landing my knuckles into her face, I knocked the First Lady on her ass. Missing the rug, the book crashed onto the hardwood floor. “Well, well, lookahere,” I said, scooping up the recording device that fell from between the pages.

  Sitting at my desk, inspecting the I-spy gadget, I worried how many other books were rigged. “So that bitch Lace thinks she’s smarter than me, huh?”

  Pressing the button on the recorder, I frowned, hit it again, then pressed and held the black dot. Gibberish. “What the fuck!” I couldn’t understand one word, but I knew that bitch was setting me up for something. “That’s okay. I got one for her ass,” I said, locking the book in my safe.

  “Bitch!” I yelled, dialing Reynolds’s number.

  “Yeah, boss,” his right-hand man answered. “We took care of it.”

  “Nigga, put Reynolds on the phone.”

  “Aw, shit. You haven’t heard? Lace said she’d handle everything, so we didn’t bother notifying you or anyone else.”

  “Heard what, nigga? Stop wasting my time and put—”

  “Reynolds is dead. Lace shot him in the head for fucking one of your girls.”

  “And your ig’nant ass didn’t call me when this shit went down?” I was speechless for a moment, then said, “Don’t say another motherfuckin’ word. Get both of your asses over here. Now!”

  As I made my way to answer the front door, my boy Benito looked spooked. Like he’d seen a ghost or some shit.

  “Nigga, what took you so long? You ready to be down with my team or what?”

  Leaning toward me, Benito said, “I—”

  “Wait up, nigga, back the hell up,” I said, covering my mouth. “What the fuck you been drinking this early?”

  Slurring his words, Benito replied, “I didn’t come here to transport no dead bodies or shit like that. I just came here to chill.”

  Oh, straight? Who did this nigga think he was? Mr. Biggs? That’s what was not gon’ happen. “Nah, nigga. This here is simple shit. All you have to do is spy on Lace. I wanna know everything that bitch says, every word she speaks, and every move she makes. For two grand a day, can you handle that?”

  Benito’s eyes lit up. He unrolled his pinky, ring, middle, pointing fingers, and his thumb.

  I swatted his hand down to his hip, sorry I needed this depressed, incompetent Negro for backup, but his bitch Lace had taken the game to a whole new level.

  “Take a seat,” I demanded, sitting in one of my high-back Imperial chairs with the wide wooden arms. Motioning for Benito to sit in the other seat facing me, I stayed in the foyer so I wouldn’t have far to go if I had to throw this intoxicated nigga out.

  “First, I need to know what you did with Sunny’s body,” I said, staring directly into his eyes.

  Aw, shit. Benito’s face dropped, bouncing like a bobble-head. “I thought you said you didn’t want me to tell you.”

  “I changed my mind. Your ass is sloppy and I can’t have no more surprises. Already had enough of that shit for one day.”

  Wringing his lips, Benito mumbled, “I left it at her condo.”

  He said “it” like he’d forgotten a shirt or a camera.

  “What!” I sat on the edge of my seat. “Somebody please tell me my ears are playing tricks on me before I shoot this nigga!”

  “You didn’t say what to do with her so I left her at her house. I ain’t no mortician, man.”

  “Go get that bitch right now and bury her ass in the desert twelve feet deep.”

  “Twelve? Desert?” Benito shook his head. “I can’t do that.”


  “Six, nigga, I don’t care, just get it done!”

  “No can do,” he sang.

  Oh! I swear I wanted to hurt Benito. “Can’t, nigga, or won’t? You’re telling Valentino James what you not gon’ do?”

  “When I went back to get my money, the quarter of a mil you gave me and the body were gone. I think you set me up, man.”

  I had to sit back before I landed a stiff one in this punk-ass motherfucker’s chest. “Your money! Nigga, that was my money. Start explaining from the second you left my house and don’t skip a beat.”

  I couldn’t believe what the fuck I was hearing. He thought I’d given him a quarter of a million dollars for losing track of a dead bitch. A bitch who according to him had either risen from the dead or had an identical twin sister that lived in Henderson? My money was gone. He honestly didn’t know where the body was. That was his drunk-ass story and he wasn’t changing it. I had to think fast.

  “Where’s your bitch, Benito?”

  Hunching his shoulders, that nigga said, “Don’t know. She was gone when I got back this morning and she won’t answer my calls.”

  “Nigga, you fired! Get your bitch ass up outta my spot before I shoot you.”

  Slamming the door, I had to come up with something quick before this bitch Lace showed up at my door tonight and tried to kill me like she’d done Reynolds.

  Angrier than a lonely, broke bitch in heat, I jumped in my Bentley, drag-raced up Ann Road over to Martin Luther King, and headed to the Strip. Barely coming to a complete stop, I tossed my key to a valet attendant at the casino.

  “Wait for your claim ticket,” he yelled, chasing me.

  Reaching back for the piece of paper like I was the anchor in a relay, I headed to check-in and reserved a suite so I could fuck the first available dumb bitch I’d meet, then went straight to the bar and called Lace.

  “Hey, how are you?” Lace answered all happy and shit.

  The announcement in the background, “Last call for flight 172 to Miami is departing at gate C twelve,” let me know I didn’t need to ask where she was.